Family Counseling
by yararebird
Summary: Ben Harmon hosts a mother/son counseling session with surprising results. Best intentions reap worst results. Trigger warnings. Mature only.


A light rain fell outside the abandoned, overgrown tribute to old money that was the Murder House. In fact, it had rained for several days, blessedly washing away the recent taint of humanity in the house. Michael Langdon had been a tragic visitor, and Ben would admit he hadn't quite gotten over the brief bond he'd shared with the Antichrist. But there was nothing to be done for it now but heal, and perhaps to deal with more recent and permanent changes to their status quo.

"So." Ben Harmon clicked the button on his tape recorder. "Let's talk today about...our newest addition to the house. Shall we?"

Tate's lip curled. He gestured to the recorder on the table. "Why do you still do that?"

"What?"

"Record this shit? Every time. We're dead. It's not like we're going to re-visit any of this for posterity. I mean, we _are_ posterity."

"I think you're redirecting here, Tate." Ben steepled his fingers beneath his chin. "Avoiding the subject I've presented."

"I do _not _want to talk about my mother."

"Well, I do _not _want to spend another useless, stagnant hour talking about my daughter and your unhealthy obsession with her. So let's level, huh? I think that it's valid to discuss your feelings about Constance joining us here in the house. Permanently."

Tate shrugged, eyeing a Tiffany window. "It's whatever."

"It's not just whatever."

"I don't really give a shit about her being here, okay? We kind of just...do our own things."

"You harbored a great deal of resentment toward her in life." The psychiatrist in Ben prodded. "It's something we've never really discussed in detail."

"Ya know? For a man who accuses me of being obsessed with his daughter, you sure do seem to be obsessed with my mother."

"You're redirecting again."

"Did she fuck you, too?"

Ben shook his head ruefully, eyes closing. "Tate -"

"Wouldn't surprise me, really. Neither of you would surprise me with that." Tate settled back into the couch, conveying relaxation. But his crossed arms and bouncing knee suggested quite the opposite.

"Let's not fall back on the 'mommy was a slut' rationale, Tate."

"_Was_?!" Tate chuckled

"It's getting old."

"_You're_ getting old."

A long suffering sigh. "I'm not doing this today." Ben was reaching for the tape recorder, ready to end this particular session when the study door swung open to reveal the very object of their discussion.

"Oh." Constance Langdon threw an abashed hand to her chest. "Forgive me, gentlemen! I was unaware there was an...appointment underway." But she lingered in the doorway, the usual hope on her pretty face when she eyed her son. The only times Ben had seen genuine emotion light this woman's face were times when she looked at her son, actually.

"It's fine, Constance." Ben offered a pleasant smile.

Tate rolled his eyes. "What the fuck do you want?"

Her lips worked. Nostrils flared. Something stifled admirably. "I'm looking for Beau. He took off down the hall with Rose's doll." Her voice tightened, challenged by her son's vim. It sharpened her sugary Southern accent to a formal knife edge.

"Well, he's not in here." Tate snapped.

"I see that." She turned on a four inch heel, chiffon wafting cigarette smoke, and opened the door to leave. "I apologize again. For interrupting."

"Actually, Constance." Ben leaned forward in his chair, ignoring Tate's angry scowl. "We were just discussing you."

She paused in the doorway. Fingers touched at her tightly controlled blonde coif. Her long neck stretched. She didn't look back at them. "Were you, now?"

"No, we weren't." Tate insisted firmly.

"Yes, we were." Ben argued just as firmly. "I think you should join us. At least for a moment."

"Hell fucking no!" Tate shouted, finally breaking his stiff stance to lurch forward on the couch.

"In this instance, Dr. Harmon," Constance offered gently. "I'm afraid I must agree with my son. I don't think my presence would be very...conducive to his psychological development."

Tate scoffed hard. "Oh, you just _now _think that?"

Now, she shot a glare at the young man. It was a look that would have withered a living person. "Don't be horrible, Tate."

"Me?!" A sardonic laugh. Ben watched this exchange intently. "_I'm_ horrible?"

"You've said some horrible things to me, yes." Her chin jutted.

"Like what?"

"Like you hate me?" Constance fully turned in the doorway. It clicked closed behind her and she leaned against it. "I'd say that was a pretty devastating statement."

"Mm." Ben jotted some notes quickly. "That _is _a triggering and powerful -"

"Aw, I _said_ something that hurt your fucking _feelings_?" Tate whined mockingly. "Think for a minute, mom."

"Let's all think for a minute." Ben raised his hands in a calming gesture. "Let's calm down and assess our -"

"Is this about the time I forgot you after middle school band practice?" Constance stepped toward her son. "And you had to walk home in the rain?"

Ben's head swiveled. He took in Tate's disbelieving gape. "Tate? Did you feel abandoned when -"

"Or the time you shit your pants in elementary school and I had to go up there and take you home because you were too embarrassed to go back to your class?" Constance took another step toward her now quivering son.

"That...was probably a very vulnerable moment for you, Tate." Ben licked his lips, hoping to find a focus. Constance completely fucked that attempt, finally coming within arms' reach of Tate across the coffee table.

"Or was it the $1000 birthday party I threw for you when you turned 15 that none of your friends came to because you didn't _have _any friends? Hm? Because I tried my damndest to give you _everything _at great expense to myself?" She held a hand to her heart, voice shaking. "Married a man I _hated _to try to give you a normal family life?"

"Bullshit!" Finally Tate reacted, flying to his feet. "You married a man you hated to steal his fucking house!"

"I did everything for you!" Constance shouted now, no longer controlling her fury. "You were spoiled rotten!" She chuffed rueful laughter. "That's why you ended up the way you did. I spared the fucking rod."

"You cunt." Tate hissed. "How dare you pull this holier than thou shit. You _know _why I ended up the way I did."

"Tate." Ben stood now, too, slowly, hoping to disarm what was becoming an increasingly volatile confrontation. "Constance. Let's just -"

"Shut up, Doctor." Constance threw a finger toward him, not sparing him a glance. "I believe you wanted me to talk to my son. And it looks like you're getting what you wanted."

"This...wasn't what I had in mind."

"Really?" Tate flung his arms wide. "You didn't want to really understand how my own mother made me into the degenerate killer I am today?"

"I didn't make you into anything." Constance smirked. "You were a self created monster, Tate. My only fault is that I attract monsters like flies to horse shit."

"You bitch!" Tate bellowed now, eyes welling irate tears. "You ruined me! I never had friends! I never had a life! I never fell in love!"

"Hah!" Constance lobbed a guffaw. "Go on and blame me for the fact that you were _never _able to hold a steady girlfriend! Even when she was dead and held captive in the spirit world that neither one of you can ever escape!"

"Woah, woah, woah!" Ben approached the pair like one might approach two honey badgers locked in a territory battle. He could see the danger in Tate's balling fists, the tension in Constance's squared shoulders.

"I _do _hate you!" Unsurprisingly Tate's response was manic, fevered. His voice nearly hoarse with the depth of his shouting.

"Because I _loved_ you!?" Constance wept now, hollowing her scream, matching her son's intensity. "Because I sacrificed? Because I humiliated myself? Debased myself to -"

"Because you crept into my room _that_ night when I was sixteen!" Tate's finger flew to her face, stabbing accusation. HIs voice dropped an octave, vibrating rage. "You woke me up from sleeping." She was shaking her head, hands gripping hair over ears. He continued. "You climbed under my sheets."

"Stop it, Tate!" She wailed, turning away, pressing her forehead to Ben Harmon's shoulder. The shrink held her shoulders, never more uncertain in his life.

"You took off my clothes -"

"NO!" She whirled away from Ben now, slapped Tate's hand from midair. She reached for his face, looking to physically hush his mouth with her hand. He struggled with her, though, gripping her deceptively strong wrists.

"You sucked my dick and -"

"YOU FUCKING LOVED IT!" Her voice was demonic, triumphant. It shook the room. She flung his hands away from hers. Ben Harmon sunk into his chair, boneless. The moment dropped like a stone into an ocean of echoing silence. "You never _stopped_ loving it, you sick little shit! Every spanking, every beating, every time I tried to make you _hurt_, you _always _crawled back for more and that night was no exception. You came in my mouth and wanted more. Didn't you?" She shoved at Tate's stunned shoulders. "Who fucked who, Tate? Because I recall it a little differently. That you were crying that night, and when I climbed into bed with you to _comfort _you as a good mother should, you were the one undressing _me_, touching _me_, and again - I spoiled you. I gave you what you wanted. And after I _sucked your dick _you rolled me over in those sheets and you slithered up my thighs and shoved yourself back where you came from."

"What did you expect?" Her son demanded, eyes wild. "You took it like the whore you were and you came, too, _mother_! That time and all the times after that one! In the kitchen the day you were making Addy's birthday cake and I bent you over the table and shoved your face in that sickly sweet fucking icing! The time on the back porch when I had to put my hand over your mouth so the neighbors wouldn't hear you -"

"And Christmas?" Constance interrupted him, now loosed curls shaking with every spat word. "When you _raped _me under the goddamn tree? Jealous of your own step daddy sleeping upstairs?!"

"So I took back a little control." Tate grinned now, shin bumping the coffee table as he tried to step around it. Constance took a wobbly step back. "Yeah, you were scared of me, then. Because you realized you _did _create a monster. That you _always _created monsters!" He shouted again, making her flinch. He hovered in her face, taller now. Imposing. Ben stared, completely frozen. "I loved the look on your face that night. The _fear _in your eyes with the twinkling lights on the tree. That was the best fuck I ever had."

She slapped him. Quick. Hard. Ir resounded in the quiet room. The sound - the action - brought Ben out of his stupor and he rose, ready to do he knew not what. Her lips quivered as Tate slowly turned back to her. "You missed me. After I was gone. Had to replace me." Tate wiped a tiny trickle of blood from the side of his mouth. "All those boys that did your yard work… They never worked _you_ like I did. Did they, _Constance_?"

"You never respected me as a mother."

"I respected you as a slut."

"I stopped it!" She yelled. "I shoved you away! I pushed you away! I tried to -"

"It was too fucking late for that!"

"So you replaced me, too?" She challenged. "With another powerless little slut who would believe your lies and spread like butter for you?"

"Violet's nothing like you at all! She's the best thing that ever happened to me!" Tate raised his fist, elbow cocked.

"Tate!" Ben snapped. "Don't do this!"

"Oh, let him, Dr. Harmon." Constance cajoled, smiling. "He wants to get his revenge licks in. Don't you, Tate? You wanna hit me?" She pushed past Ben, presented herself to her son as if to a prize photographer. "Or you wanna fuck me?"

Tate's arm shook, the fist weakening. His lip curled and uncurled. Snot rattled in his nose. "Goddamn you." He struck. Not a blow. He grabbed her - one hand on her arm and the other in her hair. He pulled her fast against him. Her gasp and mewl of pain were delicacies.

"Tate!" Ben stepped toward them.

"Get out, Dr. Harmon." Tate growled. "Get out right now."

"Constance?" But he was backing to the door, nearly tripping over rug tassels. And she couldn't answer, anyway - not with her son's mouth devouring hers. Ben staggered into the hallway, helpless to stop the family counseling session he'd set in motion.

Constance held tightly to Tate's shirt to maintain her balance. He was tilting her backwards on precarious heels, backing her toward the couch. They panted tears and saliva against each other's faces. She didn't struggle. The airy fabric of her dress tore easily and Tate flung her into the leather cushions. She pushed up on one arm, the other protecting her modesty in a lacy white bra.

"Tate." She spoke quickly, but calmly. "We don't have to do this. Ah!" A little scream as she fell back when he snatched her leg, awkwardly climbing between her thighs.

"Oh, I think we do, Constance." His hands scrambled beneath her dress, shoving it up. Her panties also tore easily, white satin remnant hanging from her knee like a flag of surrender.

"Baby." She suddenly reached for his face, stroked his cheek even as he shakily unbuttoned and unzipped his jeans. "Honey, I _do _love you."

He paused. Pants at his knees as he knelt on the creaky couch. "Yeah?" She nodded, weeping softly. "So show me."

"Oh!" She did struggle now, just a little as he adjusted one long leg over the back of the couch. His fingers were rough sliding up her thigh and she reached to stop the progress to no avail, their hands tangling occasionally. She moaned when he stroked her seeping seat.

"You were always so wet for me." He leaned over her, gripping the couch's arm behind her head as he explored her stiffening heat. His lips chased hers, but settled for her ear. "And so fucking tight." He shoved his fingers inside her and she cried out, wrapping her arms around his torso.

"Tate!"

He pumped his hand a few times, enjoying her grunts and gasps before using her own slick to stroke his throbbing, angry erection. "Beg me to stop," he whispered. He guided his cock to her cunt, rubbing to tease.

"Tate, Please," she whimpered, arching up to kiss his cheek tenderly. "Please don't do this, baby. Please stop. Oh, God!" She curled, clenching when he shoved inside her. "No! Stop! Tate!"

"That's it," he grunted, fucking her hard. "So good." The couch creaked on his every thrust. Noisily, it inched across the floor. Tate held his mother's head in the crook of his elbow, pounding her mercilessly. They were reduced to hapless, guttural, animal sounds. "You have to come," he gritted finally. She grunted in reply, mouth opening against his ear. "Yeah, there it is." She was tightening perfectly. "Come like the slut you are. Like a dirty - fucking - bitch!" He punctuated each word with a particularly strong thrust, spilling inside her as she milked him, her own spasms producing a broken, thrashing scream.

He caught his breath slowly, breathing in the scent of her hair. When he rose above her, a line of saliva stretched from a curl to his lip. She gave a relieved grunt when he settled her head gently against an upset decorative pillow. A hiss when he pulled out and lowered her now cramping leg. Wordlessly he stood and began re-dressing. He stared at Ben's empty chair. Heard her sit up behind him. "You _did _make me what I am," he murmured.

"I know." It was a defeated, but open confession. "Monsters beget monsters."

He turned. She held her head in her hands, hair a mess, torn dress revealing a vulnerable woman in a bra. Nothing more. He fought against guilt and sat beside her, mimicking her position.

"Do you feel better?" She asked.

"Yes." He did. Laid his head on her sticky, cool shoulder.

"Tate?"

"Hm."

She kissed his head. "I love you."

He sighed. "I love you, too." The rain picked up outside. "You didn't fuck Michael, did you?"

"No, honey."

"Good." He wrapped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her into a real embrace.

That night Ben Harmon sat in his kitchen, alone at the long counter. He sipped a cup of coffee, having trouble wrapping his brain around the events of that afternoon.

"That better not be decaf."

He turned, surprised. "Constance."

"That's my name. Don't wear it out." She lit a cigarette and leaned against the counter beside him. Her satin gown brushed her knees and the robe hung loose as a backdrop to lovely legs. With no compunctions at all, she slid his coffee toward herself. Sipped it leisurely. "Mmmm."

Ben shook his head, rubbed at his eyes. "Constance…"

"What?" She meandered over to the dining area with his coffee and sat at the table. Her ashtray tinked when she set it down.

"You and Tate…" He trailed off. At her positive nod, he grimaced. "Jesus. Constance. I can't even begin to tell you how truly, massively..._sick_ all that is."

She chuckled, finishing the cigarette in a few long draws. She rose after she stamped it out, sauntered over to him at the counter. His now empty coffee cup made a nerve-grating sound as she slid it all the way from the end of the granite surface. "Dr. Harmon." Her breath was warm on his ear. She smelled floral - of fresh bath and expensive perfume. "Do you know what I think is sick?"

"What?" He whispered, not looking at her.

Curls tickled his neck. She braced both hands on the counter either side of him and slid her lips to the other ear. "The fact that you stood in the hall to _watch _my son fuck me today…" He swallowed. Closed his eyes. "And _cried_ while you jacked off to it." His head fell forward, shame complete. She stroked his cheek delicately. "Good night."

She disappeared.

But her perfume lingered.


End file.
